


Homing Nowhere

by Tamaru



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamaru/pseuds/Tamaru
Summary: About a reunion.





	Homing Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> From the translator:  
> The original title is 'Reunion' but since it appears in the summary, I wanted to use another name for it. Let me know what y'all think about it.  
> And 'sea bream' is one of Mesut's nickname (as well as Nemo? this one could be a translation error) but I don't see it used anywhere in the English fandom, so here's a FYI in case you're reading and confused as where does that come from.   
> English is not my first language and I don't have a beta for this, so any comment or suggestion would be most welcome.  
> Sincere thanks to Villain_Vanilla who granted me the right to translate this work, and I hope you enjoy it.

===

Sunshine in Milan rubbed away the rainy chill soaking his bone. When he stood at the corner of the street in a strange country, staring at the gelato shop across the traffic, Mesut was caught off guard by a voice from behind. The voice was spoken in considerably slow and standard Spanish. "I'll get you one. Vanilla or chocolate?" Suffocating by strange noise called Italian, the familiar words were a lifeline. 

Mesut looked back and the tall Argentinean was standing a few feet a way, waiting patiently. 

"Chocolate." He said. That was the answer. 

With a sweet cone in hand, Mesut followed Pipa like a fish willingly taking the bait, guided by a invisible line. The Argentinean walked with him in comfortable silence. One gelato for one fish, a good deal. 

"It's been awhile." Said Mesut. He looked like he had not eaten sweets in ages, diving right into the gelato mountain from the midsection, hiding his face behind the cold dessert. His eyes switched between checking out the street and the man beside him. The rich flavor of vanilla poured into his sensory system. ("That's the only flavor they've got." Said Pipa when he handed him the cone. But whatever. Vanilla or chocolate, Raspberry or banana. It doesn't matter. He didn't care.)

"Hmm." Pipa picked up the line, and after a pause long enough that Mesut thought the conversation was over, continued, "you came from London?"

Mesut nodded, licked clean the mess around his mouth, "I've been in London ever since I left Madrid - fashion design - and here I am at the capital of fashion looking for some luck... or some inspiration." They stopped at a street side bench. The sun made everybody feeling like soft cotton candy. Pigeons from the plaza flocked to the their feet, exchanging pearl grey secrets for coins and snacks. 

"How about you?" The German asked.

They left Madrid within a year. The sudden personnel rearrangement was almost unpredictable. But Real Madrid was letting them go without a fuss, and that was a gesture both parties understood. Pipa changed a lot: he saved up a beard and, probably due to lack of injury, looked fitter than he had been during the last few years in Madrid. The Argentinean sprawled out on one end of the bench, looking as relaxed and comfortable as a fluffy duvet. 

"Naples, you know. I'm a legit businessman now. Opened up a travel agency, and then business got to Turin," Pipa took his time to sort out and pace his words, (Mesut just stared at him, chewing the topping nuts with squeaky noise) "maybe the next office will be in Milan. I'm on vacation, so might as well check it out."

Mesut focused on finishing the gelato at hand. Sunlight landed softly on his eyelashes. Gently, Pipa tugged on the invisible fish line: "If you want to catch up some more, let's go to my place." He stood up and, as predicted, the little sea bream followed. 

 

Pipa's place in Milan looked a lot like his first place in Madrid. It was sort of a safe house for the Argentinean, not known by many. Pipa took Mesut there once. It was during a rare occasion, them being the only two attendee for that job. Clean finish, but they ran into another team's mess. To avoid completely changing the original plan, they evacuated as fast as possible and, after shaking off the tails, Pipa took Mesut there. 

The job kept them hyped all night. Now was time for rest, but peace was nowhere to be found. Mesut twisted and turned on the living room sofa and end up taking over the bedroom's bed for gaming, out of Pipa's indulgence. The Argentinean turned on the bedside lamp, lean back on the pillows and started reading a book. The German was a slim fit, laying on his front on the other half of the bed, occupying as little space as possible. One of Pipa's hand somehow landed on Mesut's ankle, absentmindedly smoothing the small piece of skin there, memorizing the shape of bone underneath. After four or five pages, they suddenly realized that the gaming music had long since stopped. A breath-holding silence filled the room. Mesut put down the controller and sat up, ankle still in Pipa's hand. The piece of skin started to get numbed and then uneasy. 

"Gonzalo?" He rubbed his face and asked in a small voice. 

Pipa reached over and took him into his arms. 

The famous "Pipe" nose rested behind his ear, eyelashes tickling on the side of his face. Mesut asked, "what are you reading?"

"A book on how brain functions," Pipa said, putting the book away. The next line was close to what Mesut was expected, "it says that sex helps with sleep." 

It was two hours until dawn. 

Mes turned around to kiss Pipa. He used up the last drop of lube in the safe house to open himself up, body movement so twisted he was shaking from head to toe. Pipa took hold of him and joined in the prep from behind. Out of German stubbornness, Mes succeeded in getting Pipa in, exhausting himself in the process. Head tilted back for a long sigh, he shakily rode the Argentinean like a full grain shaking in the breeze. 

Pipa hold him with one hand, the other hand smoothing over his back, and landed Mes safely back down to the pillow. Mes tried to think clearly, tried to prove that, to no avail of course, whether there was a third person in bed, or Pipa had too complex of personalities constitution: the French Pipa was giving him gentle kisses, and the Argentinean Pipa was fucking him in brute force. 

When ecstasy washed over their bodies, tiredness poured in as well. Mesut only remembered his Spanish was really bad in bed. Most of the time, what was left of his vocabulary, after the freight train of lust, was swallowed by Pipa anyway. Back in those days Madrid had not caught up with the fashion of having fuzzy beard, and they were both young. Pipa spoke something into his ear quietly, and they formed a pair of quotation marks until sunrise. 

 

"Coffee," asked Pipa, "tea, or juice?"

Mesut thought for a minute, "do you have Mate Tea?"

The Argentinean Pipe had a gentle nature, contract to his previous job - when he was with a specific group of people at least. Mes stayed next to him during the tea making. Mate tea wasn't something new to him, but the German had never seen the process. Pipe caught him within the corner of his eyes when putting in the leafs. It had been several years since they met. The German looked different from what he remembered. His hair got longer, but probably because of the neat undercut; his skin tone shifted according to his work schedule and vacation time. He even saved up a bit of a mustache, although not very successfully. 

"Are you still in touch with the Madrid Gang? I mean, like Luka." Mesut asked over his shoulder.

"Rarely," answered Pipa, pouring cold water into the cup to protect the leafs, "not a lot of chance, unless he's in Zagreb and I'm in Argentine." 

When the tea was done, Mesut had a sip out of Pipa's straw. He could probably guess why Pipa liked it, but to him it was not so good. 

But also not too bad. 

While he tucked his chin to drink from Pipa's hand, Pipa found something and lightly pinched the little shinning metal piece on his ear. "What are you doing in London? Clothes? Accessories?"

"......Both. bathroom?" Mesut asked. Pipa scratched his beard and pointed the way. 

When Mesut returned Pipa was not at where he was. Betting on his knowledge about Gonzalo, he caught the man in his bedroom. 

The sky had gone dark and the bedside lamp was lit, although Pipa wasn't reading or anything. Lying with arms behind his head, he stared at the German walking towards him. "You just shaved?" He asked. 

Mesut hesitated, "I thought you'd be more used to this."

He never care about other people's opinion, and seldom altered himself for those. But it would be nice to let Pipa discover the unchanged part of him. 

"'bout you?" He asked, "why?"

The question came out of nowhere, but Pipa understood, "got a cut on my chin when I first started at Naples."

A smile speared across Mesut's face, "wow, Argentine can't contain you, and now Naples?"

Pipa shook his head, "just for living."

Quietness filled the room. After a while, Mesut continued, "keep it." He wanted to reach over and played with the fuzzy chin, but Pipa reached out to him, so he changed his mind and found a comfortable spot between those opened arms. Pipa left a kiss on the corner of his forehead, a little too tickling and a little too polite. So he climbed up Pipa's chest and started pecking at the other man's lips, half kissing and half biting, like waves kissing the reef. 

"In the end, you don't really want to settle down, do you?" In between the kisses he asked, voice deep and rolling on the bared skin, like muted thunder outside the window. 

Pipa took hold the back of his neck and let go. 

He never doubted Pipa to be a control freak on certain subjects, just like he never doubted Pipa to be a thoughtful lover in bed. In fact, if Pipa wanted, he could just grabbed Mes' throat and squeezed the air out of his windpipe, and Mesut would still find ecstasy in the absence of oxygen. 

He would not fight, and could not flight. 

But Pipa didn't. He didn't have to - he didn't need to prove anything to Mesut. 

The kisses trailed southwards, Mesut nibbling at the Argentinean's neck. His lips still carried the coldness from the gelato, with the same smooth and soft texture. Pipa was built of something solid yet yielding, capable of taking Mesut like a piece of land taking a demanding plant wanting to root. He buried himself inside the body of Pipa, and the man just nudged their noses lovingly, giving him encouraging kisses from time to time. 

Hands on Pipa's arms, Mes nailed Pipa in the bed with his body, nailed him into the stretching endless sea of lust. He smoothed his finger over the initials tattooed on his arm, just like Pipa took hold of his ankle in that night in Madrid. 

When the rain finally came down, Mesut could not hold back his question, "where's your photos? The ones on your bedside stand, and the ones of your family?"

"Lost them when I moved," after a long silence, Pipa raised his arm to show the letters, "they are with me now."

"Gonzalo..."

Pipa touched him, just like every other time. 

"Time, age, hurt, luck... You'll have to come across one of these or many, sooner or later. "

Mes wanted to say something to argue with him, or to comfort him, but failed. What Pipa gave to him in the past cruised under his skin now, making his whole body tense, the 'Only God Can Judge Me' tattoo on his arm slightly distorted. But with Pipa's next words, he fell like puppet with string cut.

"But I wish you are the exception, Mes," he said, "there's too many things to break a man, Mesut, but I wish you are far away from all of them."

\-- even though they both knew that it was impossible.

 

Outside the room, rain was still shrouding Milan. Before it stopped, they didn't have to wander anymore. 

 

= END =


End file.
